


Light for a Blind Man

by grantairehair



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: ALL OF THESE ARE DONE WITH MINIMAL EDITING OK SO JUST BEAR WITH ME, F/M, M/M, i'm so sorry i'm horrible at summaries, i'm still trying to decide, there might be sex later, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grantairehair/pseuds/grantairehair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire dropped out of Juilliard and has been moving around for the past four years, playing his cello wherever he can and barely getting enough money to buy his liquor. Enjolras is an intern for a senator in Washington after finishing up his political science degree at Yale.  Grantaire just wants to touch his hair. May bump up the rating to M later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grantaire the Cellist

Grantaire was running late.

It wasn’t out of the ordinary. Late was beginning to become a part of his personality description.

He couldn’t remember where he’d put his rock stop after he’d finished practicing last night. After a few minutes of searching through the chaotic mess of his apartment, he gave up. Fuck this. I think it’s carpeted there anyway.

He debated bringing his bottle of wine with him. He never liked to perform sober, but he would have to drive to and from the event. Even perpetually-drunk-or-high Grantaire drew the line somewhere. He settled with bringing a pack of cigarettes.

He grabbed his cello case and took a last look around the ruin of his apartment. This was the fourth apartment in the fourth city he’d lived in ever since he dropped out of Juilliard, but they all looked the same. Sheet music, bottles of wine and liquor, open books and old records, clothes in various stages of wear lay strewn everywhere. The only clean area was his practice space. A chair and a music stand in the only well-lit corner of the room, right beside the window. His curtains were usually drawn, but some light bled in around the edges despite his desire for darkness. He always had the option to open them when he was practicing and overlook the city. His apartment actually had quite a nice view.

But it was always harder to play when he was reminded of the world that he wasn’t in. So the curtains remained closed.

He took one last swig of wine and left.

The coffeehouse stage wasn’t carpeted. They must’ve just removed it. “Damn.” He muttered under his breath as the owner came up to greet him.

“Grantaire! Welcome!” Jean Valjean said, shaking his hand. “We’re so excited to have you perform here.”

“Thank you, sir.” Grantaire replied, mimicking Valjean’s warmth. “I always enjoy your audiences. They’re supportive and enthusiastic, and I appreciate the opportunity you’ve given me.”

Valjean smiled sincerely. “Well, you’ve certainly made things better for me as an entrepreneur, not having to worry about finding music in a moment’s notice.” He gestured to Grantaire’s cello. “I’ll let you unpack and warm up, but come and find me when you’re finished. I have a proposition I want to discuss with you.”

“Certainly, boss.” Grantaire said, saluting him before turning away to prepare for his show.

It wasn’t even much of a show, not really. He was mostly just playing background music for people who were enjoying fancy pants beverages and having “intellectual” conversations. It was all bullshit as far as Grantaire was concerned. Coffeehouses were for people who liked to pretend to be all profound and highbrow. People didn’t go there to hang out or actually converse; they came there to be seen there. The beverages’ names themselves just solidified the entire atmosphere’s pretentiousness. Who the fuck names a cup Earl Grey with some milk “London fog”?

Still, Grantaire couldn’t really complain about his gigs there. Faux-intellectuals gave wicked tips, and Valjean was always generous with its distribution, hardly keeping any for himself. He usually got enough there in one night to buy liquor for the week.

His whole performance was a little off because he had to clutch his cello between his legs to keep it from slipping down. He didn’t think he rosined his bow enough before. The tone was coming off as muffled and scratchy, not singing as much as he could on a good day when he’d had enough wine. But he had almost no alcohol in his system, which greatly inhibited his ability to ignore his conceited and fake surroundings.

Still, it was a good show. He opened with a Shostakovich prelude and continued with a Bach suite, a nice Eccles sonata, and a few Indie songs that he’d improvised. He had to stifle a gag when someone asked if he could play “The Swan” but he did anyway and the audience loved it. When he was done, the audience applauded and a few girls approached him afterwards, telling him how lovely his playing was. He could tell that he could easily score one or both of them if he wanted to. He might have, but he wanted to see what Valjean wanted, so he politely thanked them and went to find Valjean.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Grantaire asked when he finally found him in the back room cleaning out some coffeepots.

“Yes! Fantastic performance as always.” Valjean said, turning to face him.

“Thank you.” Said Grantaire, putting his hands in his pockets nervously. What was this about?

“As you know, people here love to see you perform. Business always booms and my customers always talk about how much they love having their own cellist here. I think it gives them a sense of identity, much more than booking separate gigs every week will do. So I want to offer you a full-time job.”

Grantaire’s mouth popped open. He definitely wasn’t expecting that. Maybe a raise or a new formula for dividing the tips between him and the barista. He didn’t know what to say. “Um… thank you. Thank you so much. I accept; of course I do.”

Jean Valjean beamed at him. “Brilliant. Shall we discuss your salary and hours?”

Grantaire arrived home in a daze, for once not caused by alcohol. For the first time since he dropped out of school, he had a semblance of stability in his life, an actual job, someone who actually believed in him. He felt like he should probably tell someone, so he whipped out his phone to text Eponine.

_Valjean offered me a full-time job playing at the coffeehouse._

Her reply came within seconds. **R, that’s awesome! I’m so happy for you!**

_Thanks! Feel like grabbing a beer?_

**Oh, I want to! But I have plans with Marius already. We’re going to see that new zombie movie.**

_Oh. Well have fun, I guess._

**He’ll probably just be moaning about how beautiful that mystery girl in his sociology class is, but yeah I’ll try. Congrats on the job try not to drink too much!**

_Yeah… likely._

He thought about calling Courf but decided against it. Courf had been going on and on about this new guy who moved into town and had broadened the entire group’s political horizons. They’d probably be hanging out all together, and Grantaire found that meeting new people was hard to deal with without being at least slightly inebriated. Plus, he was still recovering from the shock of his actually having a job. No, he didn’t want to meet anyone new. He grabbed a bottle of rum and some Nietzche, then settled in for another quiet, lonely evening.


	2. Enjolras Observes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is entranced by a beautiful but disorderly cellist.

Enjolras liked this town.

There were plenty of good places to hang out, his superiors were knowledgeable, and his classmates were great. He knew right after he met Combeferre that this place would be ten times better than Yale. He much preferred Washington to Connecticuit. A much better political atmosphere, and he loved having a firsthand look at the political process which he longed to be a part of.

Enjolras knew that he had charisma. People were almost predisposed to like him. He’d never had a problem making friends or getting people to agree with him. Life, he thought, had been relatively easy. 

But never until he met Combeferre and his friends did he actually enjoy it. In this new circle of people, he didn’t feel like just the head of the group. He felt like a part of it, like these people didn’t just follow him around because they respected him but because they accepted him too. 

He was settling into his new apartment quite well. He had finally gotten all of his books organized by author within genre. All of his teas and coffees were organized in his cupboards and his music filed and stacked in all of the appropriate locations. Everything was in its place, just how he liked it.

Today was Sunday, so he didn’t have to work. Things were busy at the capital, and even though he enjoyed his work, he enjoyed simply getting to know his friends better. He had just placed his John Locke treatises on his bookshelf, front and center, which was the last box he had left to unpack. He was officially moved in. He smiled to himself as he left to meet Combeferre and the rest at this coffeehouse that Jehan wouldn’t stop prattling on about. He thought he’d also heard Courfeyrac say that he still had to meet someone else in the group. It struck him as odd that he hadn’t met him yet, as he’d been hanging around with them for over a week now.

Enjolras arrived at the coffeehouse a half hour early so he could scope out the place. No one was there yet—obviously—so he ordered a simple cup of green tea and sat down in a corner table so he could observe.

He was immediately struck by the cellist playing in the center of the room. He had a curly mess of black hair and bloodshot blue eyes that were looking down at the ground in front of him. His simple gray oxford shit that had wine stains on the sleeves and his dark washed jeans looked like they hadn’t been ironed or washed in days. Enjolras could see even from here that he had a fine layer of stubble on his chin.

The cellist was playing the Largo from Vivaldi’s “Winter.” His eyebrows were knitted together in concentration and he closed his eyes as he sank deeper into the music. Everything about him looked foreign and so different than the other cellists he’d met at Yale, from anyone else Enjolras had ever known. The way he seemed completely into the music, the consistency of his bowing arm, the emotional inconsistency of his vibrato, the way his chest perked up during the rests as he took in a new breath, the way his shoulders swayed back and forth in time with his bow strokes. Enjolras was entranced. The cellist looked up.


	3. Grantaire Smitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire falls a little bit in love, even though he doesn't know it yet.

Looking at back at that moment, Grantaire was still unsure of how he could keep playing after he looked up. How he could even finish his set when an actual Greek god was watching him from the back corner of the room.

  
Yet somehow his arm kept playing. He finished “Winter” then played a Bach suite because those were easier to mechanically go through without putting much thought into it. He could no longer concentrate on the music, just the god in the corner of the room that didn’t even have the decency to lower his eyes. No, even after Grantaire looked up, Apollo kept his eyes glued to Grantaire.

  
He decided that this man was a present-day Apollo. Apollo had wavy blond hair that cascaded down about halfway down his neck. Grantaire wondered what it would feel like to bury his face in it. He was wearing a creamy white V-neck that showed off his prominent collar bones. Some blonde chest hair poked through the top. His sharp cheekbones stood high and proud on his face, and his defined and angular jawline looked smooth and clean-shaven. Grantaire wanted to touch it. The sun streamed through the window beside him, illuminating his face and extenuating the sharp, fervent lines of his face. He looked, in a word, divine.

  
It wasn’t his unearthly beauty that had captured Grantaire’s attention, however. It was his gaze. Apollo looked at him quizzically, as if he was unsure what to make out of him. He had that look that didn’t just slide over you, it penetrated you.

  
Grantaire had no idea what kind of impression he was making, he just felt the strongest feeling that he needed to listen to this man, this god. That if he listened to him, he’d have something important to say. That just being around him might just cause some of his passion, his vivacity to rub off on Grantaire a little bit.

  
He felt a strong desire to impress this man. So he winked and kept playing.

  
Apollo smiled and looked back down at his cup of tea.

  
-

  
When Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and the rest of the circle came in and sat with Apollo, Grantaire suspected who he was. He inwardly cursed himself for not meeting this man before now because he was obviously the intern that Courf was talking about and he could’ve had the pleasure of gazing on him over a week ago.  
Apollo seemed to really come alive when he was talking to the circle. Whatever they were talking about, he obviously felt passionate about it because his entire being radiated energy. Grantaire wondered what it was before deciding he didn’t care. He could be talking about different types of pond algae and Grantaire would still want to listen to him, just watch him stay this alive for hours on end.

Grantaire wasn’t gay, but he knew he wasn’t straight either. He tended to take what he could get without worrying about genitals too much. He didn’t think he was capable of feeling anything above the waistline when it came to other people. Who was this man to start making him question things all of the sudden? Who was this god that could make him want to be anything other than a drunk cellist with a sex drive?  
The idea that he may be falling in love never even crossed his mind. All he knew was that he wanted more of this man in every way possible.

-

After he finished his shift, he walked over to where the his friends were still talking animatedly to one another—or Enjolras was talking animatedly to them. “So you must be the congressional intern, yeah?” Grantaire said as a means of introducing himself.

Apollo looked up, his eyes bright from the conversation. “And you must be Grantaire!” He stood up and offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you; I’ve heard great things. I can’t believe we haven’t crossed paths until now!”

Courf rolled his eyes at Grantaire as he shook the man’s hand. “He’s really exaggerating. We told him about what a hardcore partier you are, but then you don’t even leave your apartment for a week! What’s up with that?”

Grantaire laughed. “Sorry I was a bit overwhelmed with dealing with having a full-time job for the first time ever.”

“Really? What’s your occupation?” Apollo asked curiously.

“You’re looking at it.” Grantaire gestured to his cello.

“Oh, good for you. I know it must be hard being a musician in today’s world where the classical isn’t appreciated as much as it once was. It must be nice working at a place like this where art outside of the mainstream is accepted.” Apollo said earnestly.

Grantaire grinned wryly and looked at the hipsters around them, taking pictures of each other and their cups, having pointless conversations about ideas they thought made them look special. “You… you could say that, I guess.” He let out with a laugh.

Apollo gave him a weird look and he just shook his head. “So you’re an intern at the senate, yeah?”

His eyes lit up. “Yes! I’m working as an assistant from one of our senators from Connecticut. He’s trying to get a bill passed making it easier for immigrants to become citizens, so the office is kind of swamped right now, but I’m really loving working there.”

Grantaire smiled at his enthusiasm. He was about to ask another question about who the senator was and what the bill entailed when Combeferre coughed.

The entire table was staring at them. Jehan was looking between the two of them with a dreamy expression on his face. The rest of them looked at Grantaire curiously. Grantaire looked down and realized that he was still holding Apollo’s hand.

Apollo laughed awkwardly and let him go. Grantaire dropped his hand back down to his side. He could feel it tingling. “Anyway, everyone else’s already heard this conversation a million times before. I won’t bore them with it again.”

Grantaire smiled coyly and sat down at the table. “Maybe some other time then.” He really couldn’t care less about illegal immigration, but he certainly wasn’t going to pass up on the opportunity to see Apollo light up like that again. He didn’t think he could ever get enough of his complete certainty in himself, in his ideas.

Apollo looked at him oddly then said, “Yeah. Definitely.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “I look forward to it.”

“Maybe we should change the subject before they fuck right here on the table.” Courfeyrac said cheekily.

Enjolras turned bright red and Grantaire laughed.

“SO HOW’S COSETTE, MARIUS?”

-

They didn’t get a chance to talk to each other one-on-one for the rest of the evening, but just being near Apollo was enough for Grantaire. When they were leaving, he approached the god again. “Hey, so I wasn’t joking earlier. We should definitely hang out sometime. You can tell me about that bill you’re trying to get passed.”

Apollo smiled. “I’d like that.”

Grantaire ripped the corner off of a sheet of music he had laying in his case and wrote down his number on it next to a capital R. “Call me sometime, then.”

“Yeah… I will.” His god told him, still grinning.

Grantaire held out his hand. Apollo shook it, keeping his eyes locked on Grantaire’s. They stayed like that for a few seconds, hands and eyes locked, daring the other to move before Joly burst in.

“Do any of you have any hand sanitiz—oh, sorry.” He backed away awkwardly, sensing that he was interrupting something.

“Yeah, I do.” Apollo said, disengaging from Grantaire. He reached into his back pocket and handed it to Joly.

“…Thanks.” Joly said timidly, backing away.

Grantaire laughed. “Call me.” He told Apollo, winking, before he turned to leave.

“Okay.” Apollo called after him, sounding slightly bewildered and a little intrigued. Grantaire smiled to himself as he walked back to his car.

It wasn’t until Grantaire packed his cello into the trunk of his car and was driving back to his apartment that he realized he still didn’t even know Apollo’s real name.


	4. Enjolras Confused

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis ship it so hard.

Things got awkward after Grantaire left.

After Joly sheepishly gave Enjolras back his hand sanitizer, Enjolras tried to leave to try and get his thoughts in order. The cellist had certainly been interesting to converse with. He challenged Enjolras on everything that he said, politically or otherwise. His outlook on life seemed to be the total opposite of Enjolras’s—pessimistic, futile, and chaotic. But at the same time, Enjolras had a hard time believing the truth of Grantaire’s words. His opinion shifted so much that Enjolras had a hard time categorizing him. It seemed as if Grantaire was arguing with him simply for the sake of arguing with him, keeping him talking. It struck Enjolras that he didn’t seem to care about the conversation at all, yet remained one of its main participants.

He wanted to find out more about this cellist, if only for the sake of being able to determine just who this cellist was and why he seemed so interested in him.

He looked down at the number in his hand and deliberated what a proper time to wait to call would be as he started walking toward the exit, but Jehan stopped him at the door. “So what did you think of Grantaire?” He asked, wagging his eyebrows.

Enjolras kept his face unconcerned, although he wondered if his fascination was really that obvious to the rest of the group. “I don’t understand if you’re trying to insinuate anything here, but—”

Bossuet broke in, laughing. “There wasn’t much insinuation to be done, E, you two couldn’t stay away from each other. So much touching and gazing.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Marius clapped him on the shoulder. “Of course you do, buddy.”

Combeferre gave him an impish look. “It would seem as if someone has a little crush.”

“You’re all idiots.” Enjolras informed them. “I don’t have a crush on anyone.” After looking at their disbelieving looks, he added, “And even if I did, it would be completely pointless because I have no time for a relationship. Too much work to be done in the office.”

“That’s a crap argument; no one should have to ‘make time’ for a relationship. You should just do the things that make you happy and be done with it!” Jehan protested.

“But that’s the point! My job makes me happy. Politics makes me happy. The world is changing, and I’m living at the center of it, preparing to do more. I don’t need to change or lose that.” He argued, more to himself than anyone else.

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. “That still doesn’t change the fact that you and Grantaire were exchanging a vibe that we could all feel tonight.” A few of the other men nodded in agreement. Jehan wouldn’t stop looking at Enjolras with this mixture of excitement and delight on his face. It made Enjolras a little self-conscious. He rubbed his arms nervously. Romantic interrogations were something new to him

“I barely know anything about him.” Enjolras reasoned, figuring that he had better luck with this argument with tangible facts.  
“Then fucking change it!” Feuilly told him exasperatedly.  
Enjolras looked down at the phone number in his hands. That is true… he thought. He wanted to ponder on this more, without his friends bugging him about it. So he decided to go on a political tirade. “But the real question is why is this even relevant when people are currently being religiously repressed by traditional Christian social standards?”  
That kept them busy for the rest of the evening.

-

Enjolras made another cup of tea the second he got home. He listed the facts he knew in his head, as he liked to do whenever he needed to think something important over. It helped him sort out his priorities.

He started with a few easy ones.

My name is Enjolras. I have a strange name. I am addicted to tea and coffee based beverages. I just graduated from Yale. I am a democrat. I am working so that people will not be enslaved by others’ moral values. I have the entire constitution memorized. I did my senior thesis on John Locke. Everyone deserves to be free. People are still repressed because of their race, gender, religion, or sexuality. I want to do everything I can to make them free. It is my duty to do everything I can to make them free.

I met a cellist today. He was different than anyone I’ve ever met before. I’m still not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. He gave me his number. His political views are unknown. He looks adorable when he winks. He has curly dark brown hair. He actually listens to me when I talk. He doesn’t even know me, but he has faith in me.

Relationships take time and energy. I do not have time or energy. I like politics. I am politics. 

I don’t like people romantically. I have politics. I have change. I have friends. I love people. I want to help people. I’ve never had a crush on anyone. 

The cellist had the best hands. They crawled up and down his cello like a spider. His fingers were long and slender but not bony. He was mesmerized by the calluses on his round fingertips, by his nails clipped so short, by the way his knuckles bend at the perfect angle when he grasps his bow, the neck of his cello, his coffee mug. By the way he brushes his curls out of his blue eyes when he’s talking to Enjolras but lets it fall in his face when he’s playing. By the way he talked so animatedly to Enjolras in one moment, gesturing wildly with his hands all over the place, yet looks so dejected the next. By the way they had looked when they confidently wrote down his number, scribbling the digits as tenaciously and flirtatiously as he had conversed and argued with Enjolras. 

Oh, screw it, Enjolras thought. He finished his cup of tea and set his mug on the table with a sense of resolution. He confidently programmed the number that Grantaire had given him just a few hours prior into his phone and made up his mind that he would call him first thing after he got off of work the next day.

He looked down at his phone and smiled at his new contact. R. His cellist was R.


	5. Grantaire and Eponine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have a chat. They're BFFs.

As soon as Grantaire got home, he stashed his cello in his practice space and walked to the apartment down the hall to bang on Eponine’s door. 

He heard her groggy voice groan from the other side of the door. “Grantaire, I’m sleeping.”

“Ep!” He called, not able to contain his good mood. “It’s not even midnight on a Friday night! What are you doing asleep?”

“Nothing exciting was happening; all of you were probably talking politics the whole night, so I didn’t feel like hanging around.” She complained, yawning. “And Marius wouldn’t even look at me.” He heard her sigh crackle through the line. “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you, and I’ve got a few bottles of wine with our names on them. Come over!” Grantaire demanded, not letting her sullen mood bring him down.

He heard footsteps and suddenly Eponine appeared at the door, her eyes squinty and her hair a mess. “You had me at bottle of wine. I’m all out.”

He smiled and grabbed her hand, dragging her back to his apartment. “Jesus, what has gotten into you?” She asked as she gradually gained lucidity.

He opened the door to his apartment and led them both in. “Why didn’t you tell me the new guy was such a babe?” He asked her, grabbing both of the promised bottles of wine from his cupboard as Eponine plopped down on his couch.

“Oh, so that’s it then? You’ve got a raging boner for Enjolras?” She snatched the bottle from his hand and took a swig. She looked around his apartment distastefully. “God, it’s always such a mess here.”

“So that’s his name. Enjolras.” Grantaire sighed happily, ignoring Eponine’s comment about the state of his apartment and joining her on the couch.

“Well fat chance with that one.” Eponine informed him, taking another deep sip out of her bottle.

Grantaire popped open his own bottle and frowned. “Why?”

She sank into the couch. “He’s just not into relationships. He’s super passionate about the government and politics and stuff. No way you’re gonna tap that.”

Grantaire looked at her excitedly. “But that’s just it! I don’t even care about having sex with him! All I know is that I’ve never met someone more sure of himself, more divine, more passionate, than him. I don’t care about banging him. I just want to listen to him talk about how he’s going to change the world.” He smiled and laughed, even surprised at himself. He gulped down some more wine and reclined against the sofa.

Eponine rubbed her eyes. “Well good for you. I’m glad you can be happy with just watching someone talk.” She added venomously.

“Hey.” Grantaire said, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

She took a deep breath. “It’s just hard, you know? I’d be happy just watching Marius talk and happy, too. It’s just… hard. When it’s all about someone else. Because of someone else.”

“Cosette.” Grantaire deadpanned.

She took another gulp of wine and curled up on the couch, putting her head in Grantaire’s lap and still clutching the bottle of wine. “Cosette.” She agreed.

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.” He told her, rubbing her shoulder.

“Of course he does.” Eponine said flatly. “We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“That doesn’t mean—” 

“If he wanted me, he’d have me.”

“Even if what you’re saying is true, what does it matter?” Grantaire attempted to comfort her. “Being hung up over him isn’t going to help anything. You’re just going to end up with the same broken heart you would have had anyway but without any of the pleasures other people can give to you. Find someone else. Be happy. Then get your heart broken again but with something to show for it.”

She sniffed. “R, you are the worst at consoling people.”

He smiled drily. “I guess I am.”

“So what are other people good for then? Giving you pleasure then breaking your heart?” She asked.

He took a deep sip of wine. “I might’ve said that it’s easier to just focus on the pleasure part then numb the pain later. But now… I really don’t know.”

“You really think he’s that impressive.” Eponine pondered at him, finishing her wine in a big gulp. She blearily waved the empty bottle in front of Grantaire’s face. “More.”

He absently handed her his half-finished bottle. “Yeah… I think he is.”

“Make any plans to see him again?”

“I gave him my number.”

Eponine’s eyes started drooping with sleep and the bottle sagged in her hand. “I… I hope…” She began until she shook her head sleepily. “He’s probably… not… going to call you.”

Her eyes closed in sleep. Grantaire pondered her words.

Maybe he’d call him. Maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, he was a part of their group. So he’d see him again soon.

Grantaire took comfort in that fact.

He finished the little bit of wine that was left in his bottle and leaned against the arm of the sofa. It wasn’t most comfortable sleeping arrangement, but Eponine looked so peaceful in his lap that he didn’t want to disturb her. He carefully put his phone on his coffee table and tried to relax.

Grantaire didn’t remember sliding from the conscious to the subconscious but before he knew it, his mind was full of visions of golden hair.

-

A shrill ringing woke them both up at around noon the next morning.

“Jesus Christ!” Eponine complained, covering her ears with her hands. She hit Grantaire’s shoulder with one of the tow pillows. “Make it stop!”

Grantaire was a little bit slower recognizing what was happening. He looked at her blearily. “Hmmmm?”

“Your phone, dumbass.” She told him.

He considered his ringing phone curiously, still half-asleep. Slowly the gears started turning in his brain. Only someone who couldn’t possibly know him too well could call him this early on a Saturday morning. It couldn’t be…

The ringing continued and Eponine hit him again. “You’re going to miss it!”

Eponine’s punch spurred him into action, and he reached for the phone. “Hello?” He answered, trying to sound as alert as he could.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras’s voice said on the other line.

“Oh. Hi. What can I do for you?” Grantaire said, trying to sound like he wasn’t so excited that he wanted to dance around his room like an idiot.

“I wanted to take you up on your offer to further discuss my philosophy with you.” Enjolras said.

“Oh, do you now?” Grantaire asked coyly, about to burst with anticipation. Eponine rolled her eyes at him.

“Meet me at the café at seven tonight.”

“I’m supposed to be playing until closing.”

“Well I guess I’ll just wait then.”

“I guess you will.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“See you then.”

“See you then.” Grantaire repeated and hung up with the goofiest grin on his face.

“You’re an idiot.” Eponine informed him, curling up on the couch to go back to sleep.


	6. Talk to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire plays the cello, gets a little drunk, and confuses Enjolras a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I had a giant research paper due yesterday and the school musical is this weekend so it's been Hell Week so it's been completely insane lately. I'll try to keep it updated a little bit more frequently but midterms are coming up so we'll see. Just bear with me :)

The café didn’t close until midnight, but Enjolras arrived there at ten armed with some paperwork he needed to do. He told himself that he’d try to get some work done, but he knew he’d probably watch Grantaire the whole time.

He couldn’t explain his fascination with the cellist. For once, he couldn’t define something, and that scared him. Part of him was revolted by Grantaire’s apathetic attitude to matters of human concern. Enjolras saw his blatant disregard for the detriments of the human condition and discounting of everyone’s responsibility to do what they could to improve it. Ordinarily, this would be enough for Enjolras to form a completely unfavorable opinion about the man.

And yet…

It seemed like there was more to him than this sarcastic, flippant, seemingly indifferent man. That’s all.

Enjolras saw the way the cellist’s body resigned to the music as Grantaire began a Popper concerto. Ordinarily, this piece would have required a full orchestra’s accompaniment, but somehow the cellist managed to make it sound full all by himself. Enjolras wondered if there was a reason he was a solo cellist. If there was a reason he didn’t join an orchestra somewhere. He obviously had the talent to make it as far as he wanted in the professional music world. So why would he settle for being an alcohol-dependent coffeehouse cellist who lived on the fringe of a group of political friends?

Grantaire was an enigma, Enjolras decided as he watched the way Grantaire’s whole body tensed and inflated, taking a deep breath before launching into the next part of the concerto. No longer the slow, sentimental style of before, this new section was all speed and technique. It was more than just fast playing, though. His bow danced along the strings, puffs of rosin jumping from his cello at every bow change, his fingers vibrating like mad on every single note. Seemingly like everything else Grantaire did, his playing was a paradox. He played so swiftly that a few beads of sweat formed at his temples and clung to his hair there, but he was never in a rush.

Enjolras attempted to fill out his paperwork, he really did, but he simply couldn’t take his eyes off the cellist.

-

“So I couldn’t help noticing you noticing me.” Grantaire told Enjolras a few minutes after midnight, plopping down in a seat across from him.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, trying not to blush. “You’re different when you’re playing.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire asked him, raising his eyebrows, a slight grin playing on his face. “How? Tell me.”

Enjolras calculated his response carefully before answering, “When you play, your body, your posture, your face, your music, everything, broadcasts your emotions. When you’re not, I can hardly tell what you are, if you care about anything, if you believe in anything at all. When you play, I can confidently tell you that you do.”

Grantaire gave him an odd look before taking a long swig out of the flask that he had just pulled out of his bag. “Touché.”

Enjolras decided to wait for the cellist to make a longer response, so he just stared at Grantaire until the other man decided to elaborate. Slowly, a grin spread across Grantaire’s face. “Well that’s enough about me then. Let’s hear about this bill you’re trying to pass. Let’s see how the mighty Enjolras is changing the world.”

Enjolras squared his shoulders and unconsciously puffed out his chest, feeling the course of energy rush through his body as it did every time he thought about his job. “It’s a bill that’s designed to make it easier for immigrants to become citizens.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Yes, you mentioned that the other day. And?”

“And it’s really important that immigrants are offered the same opportunities that we do! The rights of citizens should not be limited to people born in a certain place. The immigration laws are so restrictive right now that America isn’t the land of opportunity and freedom it once was considered to be.” Enjolras argued. “What happened to "Give me your tired, your poor/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free”? Opportunity is a human right, and restricting it to certain groups of people is a form of oppression.”

Enjolras watched Grantaire for a reaction, and Grantaire just smiled at him blithely. “That’s nice.”

“ ‘That’s nice’? That’s all you have to say?” Enjolras demanded, eyeing Grantaire’s dreamy expression wearily. “We’re talking about the oppression of most of the world’s population and you say ‘that’s nice’?”

“Yeah. It’s nice that you… feel so passionately about oppression and politics and all of that garbage. Tell me more.” Grantaire said warmly, leaning back in his chair and grabbing his flask again to take a swig.

Enjolras knit his eyebrows together and frowned at the flask. “Why do you want to hear me talk if you don’t even care about what I’m saying?”

“Because you’re captivating.” Grantaire purred.

“Be serious.” Enjolras told him. 

“Why?” Grantaire asked playfully. “It’s so much more fun this way.”

Enjolras crossed his arms, fed up. “This conversation is doing nothing but confuse me more about you, Grantaire. Why can’t you talk the way you play your cello?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Because it’s much easier this way.”

“But it’s so much better actually working to help other people, trying to make your life worth something!” Enjolras argued.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “But that’s the point. It’s not! Life is just life. You care about other people then they die, leave, or get hurt. Might as well enjoy what you can.” He lifted up his flask and took another swig.

“And you enjoy, what?” Enjolras inquired. “Alcohol, watching other people care about things, and playing the cello?”

“Couldn't've put it better myself.” Grantaire said.

“Do you realize what a sad life that is?” Enjolras asked him exasperatedly.

Grantaire closed his eyes and shook the thought out of his head. Then he looked up at Enjolras, his eyes earnest. “Please, Apollo. I don’t enjoy investing my life in causes that I can’t bring myself to believe in. But I enjoy watching you, I enjoy talking with you, I enjoy being around you. Don’t ask for more than that because I can’t give it to you.”

Enjolras looked at the cellist’s serious, bloodshot eyes and sighed. “You’re infuriating, do you know that?”

Grantaire smiled and raised his flask to Enjolras. “And frequently intoxicated!”

Enjolras sighed and snatched the flask from Grantaire’s hand, sniffing it uncomfortably. “You’re drunk enough already. What’s in here, tequila?”

Grantaire winked at him. “I wasn’t just talking about the tequila.”

Enjolras blushed and looked around the empty café, chuckling. “So what now? This place is obviously closed. Shouldn’t we leave? Where do you want to go?”

“Mr. Valjean said that we could stay as long as we want as long as I lock up afterwards.” Grantaire leaned toward Enjolras, his breath smelling of alcohol and his curly black hair brushing his eyebrows as they swooped across his face, his mouth forming an eager grin and his drunken blue eyes bright. “So talk to me. Of freedom, of America, of politics, of music, of immigration bills. Talk to me of revolutions.”


	7. Immigration Bills and Spring Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras gets excited. Combeferre's a dork. Grantaire falls asleep. It is spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the sporadic updating. I'm taking a really hefty class schedule and have a lot of work to do. But midterms are next week and after that I'm on spring break so I should update pretty frequently next week at least. Thanks for all of the positive feedback! Also, I wanted to give this to you as fast as I could, so this is pretty much not edited at all... so just... keep that...in mind... 
> 
> **ALSO I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THE INNER WORKINGS OF WASHINGTON AND I KIND OF SWITCHED THE MAJORITIES IN THE HOUSE AND THE SENATE BUT I DO WHAT I WANT**

Grantaire lived for the times he could listen to Enjolras, only feeling alive when he saw this man’s passion. This man who had enough vehement philosophies to make up for his purposelessness. Enjolras was frequently irritated with Grantaire’s desire to observe rather than fight in their political issues, but they all settled into a comfortable rhythm soon enough. A few months passed with Enjolras frantically working on the bill (and roping the rest of the group into helping him) and Grantaire playing his cello and absorbing the vivacity of his god. One might have even said that they were content, but there was so much that they didn’t know. About the other, about the bill, about Washington, about orchestral careers. They saw each other’s surface, nothing more. They accepted it, but things gradually began to ferment.

“Ok, everybody,” Enjolras announced when they were all gathered one day at the coffeehouse. It was the end of March. A rush of warmth had come into the air with spring, and everyone’s spirits were high. The flowers were beginning to bloom (a fact which Jehan would not let anyone forget) and a fine layer of pollen coated just about everything, including the inner lining of Joly’s lungs (a fact which he would not let anyone forget, punctuated with constant sneezing and coughing). Even with the sporadic sniffles, it was the sort of day where one couldn’t simply stay indoors, so they met on the patio of the coffeehouse. “I need to tell you that this bill is coming along nicely. It’s already passed in the House, but the Republican-dominated Senate’s going to be more of a challenge. The vote’s in less than a month, so we need to make sure that we’re telling everyone we know to put pressure on their congressmen and congresswomen. We need to let the people know what’s going on in their government and their power to affect it!” He stated vigorously, slamming his hand on the table. Grantaire watched in fascination as the movement caused the surface of his cup of coffee to ripple outward with the vibration before looking back to Enjolras in all his fierce glory.

Combeferre smiled. “We’re so close now. Imagine how many people are going to have better lives because of us.”

Courfeyrac laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re just little pieces in the big game of democracy, my friend. I doubt we’ll be in the history books or people will write songs of us in the future. But it does look like the world might be just a little bit better because of this.”

Jehan looked at him impishly, the wind tossing his long, burnt red hair around his freckled face. “You say that no one will write songs of you. Will the musing poetry of an idealistic young student suffice?”

Courfeyrac looked down and blushed. A first, Grantaire noted. He wondered what was happening there. But Jehan was obsessed with love and Courf was Courf so who knows?

Feuilly broke in laughing, “Well, that’s all well and good, but that doesn’t change the fact that Poland—”

Bahorel cut him off. “Yes, yes Feuilly we understand Poland’s misfortunes but can’t we celebrate a small victory here? We’ve been fighting for this for months!”

“Feuilly’s right.” Enjolras countered. “This is progress, but even so, our work is far from complete. What’s the good of having a small victory here while so many issues stand uncorrected? Let’s take joy in the victory from the House but not forget how much we still have to do. Senator Javert still thinks—”

Grantaire began to tune out Enjolras’s words, simply listening to his voice and taking note of the way his cheeks flushed when he got excited about the bill, the way his voice filled with so much emotion that Grantaire had no idea how one man could have so much raw power, so much passion, so much magnetic forcefulness.

Grantaire poured himself another glass from the bottle of cheap wine that he was sharing with Bahorel, swishing some of it wine around the edges of the glass, watching it cascade down the inside of the bowl in arcs before he took a deep sip. Enjolras continued talking. Grantaire finished the bottle. He figured he must have fallen asleep sometime around this point.

-

“GRANTAIRE!” Eponine shouted, smacking his shoulder.

He took a sharp breath intake and tried to absorb the events around him. Courfeyrac and Jehan were walking away together, absorbed in a conversation. He didn’t see Marius, Bossuet, or Joly anywhere. Feuilly was arguing with Bahorel, but he could tell that it was all in good fun by the smiles on both of their faces. Enjolras was paying for his coffee, shooting disapproving glances to Grantaire who was still waking up. Eponine was glaring at him from above and Combeferre was quietly standing behind her, a shy grin on his face.

“Hmm?” Grantaire answered groggily. Everything was swimming, maybe because he had just awoken, maybe because of the bottle of wine he had just drunk. He had intended to share it with Bahorel…

“Grantaire, you’re supposed to drive me home!” Eponine told him exasperatedly.

He squinted up into her face. “Well… that might be… difficult.”

“No shit!” She told him.

Grantaire smiled and reached up to touch her hair. “But why do you want to go home now? It’s such a beautiful day!” 

Eponine rolled her eyes. “Damn it, you’re so drunk.”

Combeferre tapped her on the shoulder. “Your building’s on the way back to the library. I’m going there to study later. I can drop you off, if you’d like.” He offered.

Eponine relaxed and turned to him. “Thank you. That’d be great, actually.”

“Well, then, shall we be off?” He offered his arm to her.

She stuck her tongue out at Grantaire then smiled and took Combeferre’s arm. “Certainly.”

Grantaire raised his empty wine bottle to them as they walked back to Combeferre’s car. He heard Combeferre ask Eponine, “If I may, why are you so desperate to get home?”

He heard Eponine sigh. “Marius said he might call me. Probably to go on some creepy mission to interrogate Cosette’s friends about what she wants for her birthday, but I still need to be there.”

As their voices faded, Grantaire looked back over at Enjolras. He was gathering some papers in a folder with one hand and juggling a cup of coffee with the other, preparing to leave. Grantaire rolled his eyes and stumbled over. “It looks as if you could use some help there.”

Enjolras looked up at him and smirked. “You sure you’re not too drunk?”

Grantaire laughed and snatched the coffee from his hand. “No such thing.”

Enjolras gave him an odd look before continuing to order his papers. “Well thanks then. I should probably leave; I have a lot of work to do on this bill, and you should probably be practicing.”

“Pshhhh.” Grantaire scoffed. “Practicing, working, doing… why?” He gestured wildly with his empty wine bottle.

“Because the greatest joy comes from creating things, R.” Enjolras clapped him on the shoulder and turned to leave.

“At least don’t go inside!” Grantaire called after him.

Enjolras slowly turned around and looked at him quizzically. “Why?”

Grantaire gestured around him blithely. “Well you can’t just leave this here to enjoy itself.”

“So what are you proposing?” Enjolras asked.

“At least take your paperwork to the park with me. You can work on it there.” Grantaire suggested.

Enjolras was unconvinced. “How am I going to get anything done with you there?”

“I’ll be good, I promise!” Grantaire assured him, suddenly excited.

“Well what do you plan on doing?” Enjolras reasoned.

“Who cares?” Grantaire asked him lightheartedly. “Take a nap! Start writing a novel! Watch a movie in my head! Listen to the wind in the trees, for Christ’s sake! Have you ever even experienced spring fever?”

Enjolras chuckled. “Okay, yes, fine. Sounds like a plan.” After Grantaire grinned idiotically, he amended, “As long as I can still get my work done!”

Grantaire smiled and grabbed his hand to tug him to the park until he realized that he was still holding Enjolras’s coffee. He gave it to him and they awkwardly separated, finishing the walk in silence except for the singing of the birds.


	8. Springtime Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring does something to a guy, even a cynical drunkard whose supply of alcohol has been sequestered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so fluffy I almost got a cavity writing it.

Enjolras wanted to sit at a picnic table so that he could work more easily, but Grantaire insisted that they settle down in the grass. “We’re already at the park, Apollo, why would you want to half-ass it?”

Enjolras gave him an odd look. “Why do you call me that anyway? Apollo?”

Grantaire shrugged as he sat down in the middle of a grassy area. “I didn’t know your name for our entire first conversation. I had to call you something, and that was the first thing that came to my mind I guess.” He laughed, pulling his flask out of his pocket again.

Enjolras joined him on the ground and snatched the flask out of his hand. “How can you enjoy this beautiful spring day if you’re shitfaced drunk?” Enjolras asked him innocently, holding the flask out of his reach.

“Touché. I’m already tipsy enough to last me until the night anyway.” He told Enjolras as he reclined on his elbows, feeling the warmth of the sun soak into his face and arms despite the persisting slight chill in the air.

Enjolras sighed and stowed the flask in his pocket before he started working.

Grantaire kept his promise and kept quiet. It was enough just laying with Enjolras in the sun. The other man was immersed in his work, and Grantaire was immersed in him. The sun illuminated his face and lit his golden hair on fire, enhancing his godly disposition. Grantaire happily basked in the light of the sun and the light of Enjolras and he didn’t lie when he said he’d be happy listening to the wind in the trees. He wasn’t a poet like Jehan, and he ordinarily would have laughed at the lovers who shared the park with them, but there was something about the coming of spring that could turn any man into a romantic, even a cynical drunkard like Grantaire. As the grass kissed his elbows and a gust of wind ruffled his hair, Grantaire closed his eyes and dozed off again. Not to the songs of the newly awoken birds or the eager wind in the branches but to Enjolras’s calm breathing, countered by the scratches of his frenzied pen writing out the future on coffee-stained sheets and an old, worn clipboard.

-

The silence was what eventually caused Grantaire’s awakening. No birds, no breeze, no scribbles. He noticed a few things right away: the sun was setting outside taking the warmth with it, he was completely sober for the first time in a long while, and he had his head on Enjolras’s chest. Who had his arms around him.

He was presented with an interesting situation, and he wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. So he started to reach for his flask, which he saw peeking out of Enjolras’s pocket. 

His undertaking was impeded, however, when he felt a strong hand stop his. “No.”

He looked up and saw Enjolras looking down at him bemusedly. “So you’re awake.”

“Mmm.” He replied serenely, leaning back into the grass.

Grantaire sighed happily and settled back down into his chest. “Yeah.”

They stayed like that for a few minutes, holding each other as the sun set. Grantaire noted that all of Enjolras’s papers were complete in a neat stack next to them. The work was done then. Just them laying together in a field. Enjolras was the one to break the silence. “Why do you drink so much, Grantaire?”

“I don’t know.” Grantaire told him truthfully. “It makes the world easier to deal with, I guess.”

“So you use it to run away from your problems then?” He asked sincerely, adjusting their position so that they now laid on their sides, face-to-face in the grass.

“No.” Grantaire replied with a sad smile. “To ignore them.”

Enjolras sighed. “Why, though? Do you enjoy living with so much lost potential? Do you take pride in not believing in anything or facing it without the aid of alcohol? Is really the life you want to live?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Grantaire countered, “what kind of life I want to lead. I’m content with my lot. I make music, I drink wine, I have a dirty apartment. I have people I actually care about for once, none of which I’d have if I wasn’t a directionless bastard who couldn’t stay in one place for more than twenty minutes, not even the most prestigious music school in the country.” He exhaled and ripped a few blades of grass from the ground with his fingers, providing a satisfying ripping noise. “Especially not the most prestigious music school in the country.”

“You think your life would’ve been worse if you had stayed at Juilliard?”

“No. I know my life would’ve been worse. Nothing there was real. Not the people, not the city, not even the music. But here’s different.”

“Not because it’s the political center of democracy, I’m guessing.” Enjolras acknowledged, smiling.

Grantaire laughed and then grew serious again. He had Enjolras’s undivided attention for once, and he sure as hell didn’t intend on wasting it. “No. Because I guess there’s just something about me moving here that makes me want to care. Not about politics or even about people in general. I still don’t see any greater point to life, and I still think that the hipsters that hang around the coffeehouse and ask me to play Bach’s prelude to the first suite practically every day are hopelessly delusional. I know I could audition for the National Symphony and make it if I wanted to, but that’s never what I wanted. A conductor telling me what to do, how to play, how to feel. Everyone moving together as one uniform robot. Everyone pretending to feel the same feelings just because that’s how it’s written on a page. What’s the point? Of anything? I’d rather play to keep a diary for myself in the only clean corner of my living room with a colony of empty bottles as an audience or in a coffeehouse full of idiots who don’t know classical music but tip well.”

He stopped for a moment to think. “And?” Enjolras prompted. Grantaire saw the engrossment in the marble man’s eyes and felt warmth spread throughout his body.

He continued. “I didn’t think it would be like this when I came here. I suppose I have Jean Valjean for letting me play at the coffeehouse and believing in me and giving me the avenue to meet Courfeyrac and Eponine and Feuilly and Jehan and everyone else and even the absentminded Marius. People who I grew to care about, which was something that I didn’t expect after flitting across the Northeast for half a decade, unsuccessfully trying to find some meaning in… anything I guess. I expected here to blend in with the rest, but it didn’t work out that way. And you know that I don’t care about your immigration bills or your Senator Javert or you internship or democrats or republicans or changing the world, but”—he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to face Enjolras when he said his final words—“Damn it Enjolras, I care about you more than I’ve ever cared about anything.”

He paused to wait for Enjolras’s response, slowly opening his eyes. He couldn’t read the expression on the man’s face. Enjolras looked up at him and opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then he reached over to run his hand through Grantaire’s hair, stopping when he was cupping his face. “You’ve had time to get over that bottle of wine you had this afternoon. You’re sober. So why are you being so honest?” 

Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’s hand that was on his face, lacing the fingers through his own, and looked back up at him. “On the contrary, I’m more intoxicated than I’ve been all year.”

Later, Grantaire couldn’t remember who leaned in first or who tilted their head which way or how they managed to not collide noses, he just knew that suddenly Enjolras’s lips were on his. He closed his eyes and reached up to thread his fingers through Enjolras’s golden hair, and it was just as full and soft as he had been dreaming it would be. Enjolras grabbed the back of Grantaire’s neck with one hand and put the other on the small of his back to pull him closer. Enjolras’s kiss was softer than his words and Grantaire’s more fervent. Heart racing and cheeks flushed, Grantaire squirmed closer to Enjolras until he crawled on top and was straddling him, trailing kisses all over his face and down his neck to his collarbones. Enjolras smiled and lifted Grantaire’s forehead against his. Grantaire opened his eyes to look into the other man’s—this god who was for some reason holding him. “You taste like wine.” Enjolras breathed.

Grantaire smiled against his lips. “You taste like coffee.” He ducked to plant a kiss on Enjolras’s collarbone. “Bitter. Black. Coffee.” He punctuated each word with a kiss, moving up Enjolras’s neck and jaw to his lips again. Enjolras sighed onto Grantaire’s lips. Grantaire relished the rush of warm air across his face, a sharp contrast to the cool evening air around them. Enjolras made an animal-like noise that resembled a growl and flipped over so that he was now on top and Grantaire had his legs around his hips. Grantaire giggled softly and grabbed Enjolras’s neck to pull himself up and kiss this godlike man’s lips again. 

They balanced each other out and settled into a give-and-take rhythm that lasted until the stars came out. Their bodies came together like puzzle pieces. Somewhere, Eponine was waiting for a phone call, reading a Dickens book given to her by a certain philosophy student. Marius was getting up the nerve to call Cosette and ask her to have dinner with him and his grandfather. Joly was sneezing and laughing and Bossuet was giving him tissues and laughing. Jehan was reading a Yeats poem on a couch at Courfeyrac’s house, and Courfeyrac had his head in the poet’s lap, eyes closed and a smile on his face. Senator Javert mused on a clause in the newest version of the immigration bill’s possible effects, eventually deciding that it sounded harmless and he trusted his fellow senator. Jean Valjean closed up the coffeehouse early because business was slow and he was tired, wanting to get back home to Cosette.

The spring warmth completely left the cool nocturnal air, but the two men lying in the middle of a field in a park in the political center of democracy didn’t notice one bit because they fell asleep wrapped in each other’s warm arms, cheeks flushed, hearts racing, and with smiles on their faces.


End file.
